


Hush, Little Baby

by susieboo (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Poetry, Sad, Suspense, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:29:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1816975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/susieboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail Watson's got some very special adults in her life... But when one of them betrays her, she finds herself as the prize to be won in a mad game between Jim Moriarty and Uncle Sherlock. [Set nine years after HLV. Based off a Tumblr post. This will be ten chapters long.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Hush, little baby, don’t you cry…_

“Dad, is it true what Sherlock said?”

 

“Probably, but you’ll have to elaborate,” John said, pouring a glass of milk for Abigail.

 

“He said—he said if you ever murder someone—“

 

“Oh, Christ…”

 

“—that, that you should just feed the corpse to pigs, ‘cause they’ll eat anything. Is that true?”

 

John cast a glance at Mary, who shrugged as if to say, “Hey, this is your battle, not mine.”

 

Abigail stared up at him with two big, questioning blue eyes, looking so innocent you never would’ve believed she’d spent a day with Sherlock, let alone most of her (brief) life.

 

“Yes, that’s true, but that’s not exactly something you need to know when you’re nine,” John said tiredly.

 

“Sherlock said I might.”

 

“…Why on earth would he say that?” John asked, mentally adding another thing to his list of things to scold Sherlock about.

 

Abigail paused, before answering. “The other kids at school—they think I’m weird. They make fun of me.”

 

John frowned. “Abby, you never told us that—how long as it been going on?”

 

She shifted nervously in her seat. “Most of the year,” she admitted. “I didn’t even tell Sherlock—he figured it out.”

 

“Of course he did,” he sighed. “Look, go help Mum finish up dinner. I need to make a phone call.”

 

Both Abigail and Mary knew that that was code for “go talk to your mother so you don’t listen to me yelling at your school for not taking better care of you.”

 

_…Daddy John’s always ready to save your life._

_Hush, little baby, don’t you fear…_

Mary paused what she was doing to kiss Abigail on the top of her head. “You could’ve told us if there was a problem,” she said softly.

 

”I know,” Abigail said, and she did. “I just—I just wanted to deal with it on my own, I guess.”

 

“You don’t have to do that. Dad and I want to make sure you’re safe. I’m just wondering what on earth they could’ve found to make fun of you about.”

 

Abigail tugged nervously on one of her long blonde braids. “I guess I’m… too much like Uncle Sherlock. My teacher said my presentation—we, we had to give a presentation about something that interested us, and I picked Jack the Ripper—“

 

“Oh, dear,” Mary said, letting out a small laugh as she shook her head, half-exasperated, half-amused.

 

“—and my teacher said it was ‘horrifying, disturbing, and worryingly informative,’ his words, not mine… right in front of everyone!” Abigail sighed. “I worked really hard on it, too—Sherlock took me to the library to get me books and he told me all his theories about who did it.”

 

“Sherlock’s trying to catch Jack the Ripper?”

 

“He says it’s for when he needs something light.”

 

Mary laughed again.

 

“Do you think I hang out with Uncle Sherlock too much?” Abigail asked quietly.

 

Mary shook her head. “Uncle Sherlock loves you like you were his own, Abby. You’re so much alike… it’d be a crime to keep you two apart.”

 

Abigail smiled at that. She wanted to be like Sherlock.

 

Except the bit where everyone hated him in university. That sounded like it sort of sucked.

 

“It doesn’t look like Dad will be off the phone for a while,” Mary observed with a sigh, as multiple expletives drifted through the wall from the next room.

 

“How long ‘til dinner’s ready?” Abigail asked.

 

“Oh, about an hour.”

 

“Can I go see Uncle Sherlock, then?” she asked. “I’ll be back in time.”

 

“Take your phone,” Mary said. Being the child of two of Sherlock Holmes’s allies and the goddaughter of Sherlock Holmes himself, Abigail had had a phone since she was old enough to know how to use it, just in case.

 

Other than that precaution, she was able to go to and from 221B as she liked—it was only three blocks away, all up and down residential streets. So she pulled on her sweater, grabbed her backpack, hugged Mary goodbye, and started down the road to Sherlock’s.

 

_…Mama Mary’s gonna hold you sweet and dear._

_Hush, little baby, just stay still…_

Sherlock was lying on the couch when Abigail got there. She let herself in—she’d had a key to the place for as long as she could remember, though Sherlock had promised to teach her how to break in sometime.

 

“Uncle Sherlock?” Abigail said, approaching him.

 

“Bored,” he said simply.

 

“I know,” she replied. She sat down in the chair that had once been John’s chair, all those years ago. Her feet dangled off the ground. “No luck on your case?”

 

Sherlock had been trying to catch Moriarty since before she was born.

 

“Luck has nothing to do with it, Abigail. It’s all observation…”

 

“…and deduction,” she finished with a small smile.

 

“Very good.” Those that didn’t know Sherlock well would’ve said his tone was bored, but Abigail was able to detect the hint of pride. “How are you doing, Abigail?”

 

“You already know.”

 

“I know, but—but isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Ask, instead of telling them.”

 

“I guess so.” She sighed. “Dad found out about the girls making fun of me at school—oh, and he found out about your ‘how to dispose of a corpse’ lessons, so expect a phone call about that.”

 

He sighed. “Why did you tell him about that? I have enough to deal with from my brother as it is.”

 

“He asked me if I’d learned anything interesting. School wasn’t going to provide that answer, so…”

 

“You really ought to see about skipping grades.”

 

“Why didn’t you do that when you were in school?”

 

“Mum wouldn’t let me,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Said I could use social interaction with my peers. She thought it’d be good for me.” He cast a glance at his goddaughter. “But you and I know better.”

 

Abigail smiled again. “Yeah, because you and I know my peers are terrible.”

 

“Just forget about them, Abigail. Soon enough you’ll be out of that school and able to associate with intelligent people.”

 

“You mean… you.”

 

“Only partially.” He smirked slightly.

 

_…Sherlock really loves you, and always will._

_Hush, little baby, don’t make a sound…_

Abigail cast a glance at the clock.

 

“I gotta go home, Uncle Sherlock,” she said, hopping back onto the floor. “I’ll come and see you after school tomorrow, if I don’t have detention.”

 

“What would you have detention for?”

 

“Today a girl called you a freak so I threw a turkey sandwich at her nose.”

 

“You didn’t have to do that.”

 

“I know.”

 

She gave Sherlock a hug (which he awkwardly returned as best he could without getting up from the couch), then exited, locking the door behind her.

 

Before she went home, she had one last stop to make. Digging ten quid out of her backpack, she made a slight detour, turning down another street. A homeless man called Brenden resided there with his shopping cart and his cat, and she liked to give him money when she could.

 

“Here you go, Brenden,” she said pleasantly, handing the coins to him. His eyes were lined with red and his beard was unkempt, but Abigail didn’t see any real reason to be afraid of him. Not even the police minded him much—he didn’t cause much trouble.

 

“Thank you, Abby,” he said, having picked up on the nickname. “How’s school?”

 

“It’s okay, I guess. Boring.”  


“That history project coming along?” he asked, recalling what she talked about last time they’d seen one another.

 

Abigail smiled. “Yeah. I think I’ll get a good grade. I’m doing my pamphlet on pirates.”

 

“Very good, very good…” Brenden chuckled.

 

“How’ve you been doing?”

 

He grinned up at her from where he sat on the ground. “Just splendidly. Been tryin’ to track down an old friend of mine.”

  
“Any luck?”

 

“Not much.”  


She frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry. I hope you find him.”

 

“I think you might know him, actually.”

 

“Me?”

 

“I have a picture,” Brenden said, producing an old, ratty newspaper clipping from his pocket.

 

Abigail moved closer, looking over his shoulder. The headline read **SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS**.

 

“Hey, that’s Uncle Sherl—!”

 

She was cut off by a hand over her mouth and an arm over her neck, hearing someone whisper, “Stay still and it won’t hurt as much…” before feeling a knock on her head, and her world going black.

 

**_…Uncle Moriarty’s got you now._ **


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t really intending to continue this, but quite a few people asked me to, I really liked Abby, and quite frankly I got a lot of sick amusement out of the begging. But in all seriousness, I was really flattered at how much you all liked this. This will be ten short chapters. I have a plan. And as anyone who reads my stories knows, I like angst and I like tragedy.  
> Be afraid, readers. Be very afraid.

_Hush, little baby, don’t you fight…_

 

Abigail woke up in the trunk of someone’s car.

 

For a moment, she couldn’t remember how or why she was there. All she knew was that her mouth was dry, her head was spinning, and she felt like she’d been hanging upside for a very long time. Why was she here? Why was the room dark?

 

Then, she remembered.

 

Visiting Uncle Sherlock. Stopping on the way home to talk to a homeless man. Brenden. The newspaper clipping. Being hit on the head. Then darkness.

 

Of course. She’d been kidnapped. Why didn’t she listen when Dad warned her not to talk to strangers?

 

She tried to take a deep breath through her mouth, but found her mouth had been duct-taped shut. Heart racing, the young girl realized she couldn’t scream for help. Taking a breath in through her nose, Abigail tried to calm herself down. Panicking wasn’t going to help anything.

 

So why was she feeling her eyes fill with tears?

 

_Okay, Abigail,_ a voice said in her head. Uncle Sherlock? _You need to remain calm. You are in a small, dark space, and you can feel the ground moving beneath you. Where are you?_

Abigail squinted into the darkness, brow furrowing as she tried to think.

 

_I’m in the boot of someone’s car._

_Exactly. And what do we do if we’re in the boot of someone’s car?_

Abigail licked her lips, trying to think. Uncle Sherlock had gone over this with her, she knew it. He was always quizzing her on what to do should she be kidnapped. She’d never really expected it to ever pay off—then again, what nine year old ever _expected_ to be kidnapped?

 

_Come on, now, Abigail_ , Sherlock’s voice said. _I always regarded you as a fellow intelligent person. Don’t let me down now._

_Okay, okay! You… kick out the taillight!_

_And then…?_

_Stick your hand out and wave like crazy. Because the driver won’t see, but everyone else will._

_Good girl. Well, get on with it!_

Abigail shifted, attempting to lift her leg to do just that. She was only, however, able to lift her leg a centimeter before it stopped. She tried again, wriggling around a bit.

 

It appeared she’d been taped to the trunk’s floor.

 

_…Or you may not even last the night._

_Hush, little baby, don’t try to run…_

 

Abigail remained still and silent for the rest of the ride, but her mind was racing. What was she going to do? Where was she going? Why was she being kidnapped? Did Mum and Dad know something was wrong yet? How long had it been? What on Earth was going on?

 

Over the hum of the car, she could just barely make out two voices, both male, from the front seats of the car. Most of the words were indistinct and mumbled, but every now and then she caught a few phrases.

 

“…Sherlock will be looking for her, no doubt…” That voice belonged to “Brenden,” or whatever his real name was.

 

“…Suppose we should…ransom…or do you…?” This voice was considerably deeper, with a rough edge to it.

 

“…Game. For old times’ sake…”

 

“…Not sure this is a good idea… doubt you…”

 

“…Know what I’m doing.”

 

“Look, Jim…be careful…he’s beaten you….”

 

“ _NO, HE HASN’T_!”

 

If Abigail had been able to move, she would’ve jumped at the sudden increase in volume. So, Brenden was Jim Moriarty. The man Uncle Sherlock had warned her about. He was the boogeyman of her childhood. She’d been caught between fearing him and not quite believing in him—everyone knew _of_ him, but very few people that knew him personally were still alive.

 

He was no longer the monster in her closet. He was here, flesh and blood, and he had captured her.

 

Only one question remained. What did she do about it?

 

_…Uncle Moriarty’s only started his fun._

_Hush, little baby, don’t you scream…_

The car came to a stop some time later—Abigail had given up on trying to count the minutes. It felt like hours.

 

“The kid back there?”

 

“Yeah. Be gentle with her, Seb, she needs to be unharmed for the game to begin, at least at first…”

 

Abigail squeezed her eyes shut, her small, thin body trembling as she heard someone unlock the trunk and slowly open it.

 

“Oh, the poor dear is scared to death!” Sebastian cooed, his voice coated with fake, cruel sympathy, every bit as sickeningly sweet as the grape-flavored syrup Mum would make her drink when she was coughing.

 

“Hello, Abby,” Moriarty said. “Why don’t you take a look at your uncles Seb and Jim?”

 

Abigail didn’t move.

 

“Come on, dearie, look at us.”

 

She didn’t.

 

“Look at us!” Moriarty’s voice suddenly became a fierce growl, his hand grabbing her shoulder and shaking her.

 

Still trembling, her blue eyes opened. Moriarty was recognizable as “Brenden,” but his beard was now shaved, and he was now in a three-piece suit. He was much neater, much handsomer, and much, much scarier. Sebastian looked much more like she imagined a human boogeyman would. Tall, dark-haired, with cold blue eyes and stubble on his chin. Dog tags hung from his neck, not unlike the ones her father would occasionally wear. While Sebastian looked much more intimidating to the eye, she knew Moriarty was the real monster here. Moriarty was king, Sebastian was merely a knight.

 

“That’s a good girl,” Moriarty said with a smile. She shivered, and averted her gaze once again. “Sebastian, take the brat to her room. I have a call to make.”

 

“Yes, Jim.”

 

Moriarty left, and Sebastian leaned into the trunk, ripping off the tape on Abigail’s mouth.

 

“What’s your name, brat?” he asked.

 

“Abigail,” she whispered.

 

“Abigail _what_?”

 

“Abigail Molly Watson,” Abigail replied, somehow doubting he didn’t actually know. Feeling a bit brave, she added, “What’s yours?”

 

He looked irritated, but answered anyway. “Colonel Sebastian William Moran. You can call me Colonel.”

 

Moran ripped off the tape that was binding her legs and arms, and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her (rather violently) out of the trunk. She considered telling him that Moriarty had told him to be gentle with her, or kicking him to try to get him off, but decided against it. She wasn’t feeling _that_ brave.

 

“Come on,” he said shortly, pulling her along behind him after he shut the trunk. Moran strode out of the parking garage they were in, leading her through a side door into a large, mostly empty penthouse. It would’ve been beautiful, if it weren’t for the suspicious-looking stains on the white marble floor, and the cobwebs in the corners. She didn’t get much of a chance to look around, however, as Moran pulled her up the long staircase to the upper floor.

 

“Where are we going?” she asked, stumbling a bit as he began walking faster.

 

“Your room.”

 

“Where are we?”

 

“That’s none of your concern.”

 

“What do you even want from me?!” She knew she should just be quiet and avoid angering him any further, but she was terrified, and in need of answers.

 

“I want you to shut up and trust that me and Uncle Jimmy will take care of everything.”

 

“But—“

 

Moran shut her up with an open-handed strike to the back of the head.

 

“I told you to _shut up_ ,” he whispered. “If you value that pretty little head of yours, I suggest you just follow me.”

 

Abigail squeezed her eyes shut to hide the tears that had begun filling them, and nodded.

 

“Good girl,” Sebastian said, voice full of venom. He came to a door and pushed it open, tossing Abigail inside. She just barely kept herself from crying out when she hit the ground, knees-first. From behind her, she heard him say, “Stay where you are, little girl. I’ll see you soon.”

 

The door slammed shut behind him, and she heard the lock click. Stumbling slightly, Abigail got to her feet and felt her way through the dark room to the wall, where she found the light switch. The light was yellowish and dim, but enough to see her way around. A twin mattress with a blanket on the floor for a bed, no window, an empty closet, and three books stacked up neatly in the corner of the room.

 

Abigail dug into the pockets of her skirt, and found that Moriarty had gone through them, emptying them. Her cell phone, her school ID, even the little bit of loose change she’d had were gone.

 

_Don’t cry,_ she ordered herself. It was all she could do at this point.

 

_…Just pretend that this is just a bad dream._

_Hush, little baby, just stay in place…_

Meanwhile, across town, John and Mary Watson were both on their cell phones, pacing their home back and forth.

 

“I don’t know where she could’ve gone to, we’ve checked everywhere,” Mary was saying. “She went out—not far, all well-lit streets, it wasn’t even dark yet—Sherlock says she was there and then she went home. She knows better than to go anyplace alone, she must’ve been nabbed—had she gone to a friend’s she would’ve called!”

 

John was talking to Sherlock.

 

“I’m on my way over,” Sherlock was saying, pulling on his coat. “Does she have any friends that live nearby?”

 

“Sherlock, she didn’t have any friends at all, you know that,” John said. “Oh, Christ, why did we…?”

 

“Stop blaming yourself. It’s not going to get Abigail found any faster.” Sherlock’s words were harsh and his voice terse, but John could hear a bit of guilt in Sherlock’s voice, too. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

 

They hung up, and Sherlock was about to put the phone back into his pocket when it chirped. A new text message.

 

_I’ve devised a new game, with higher stakes and a more valuable prize than ever before. Wanna play? – JM_

 

**_…Sherlock Holmes is on the case._ **


End file.
